


worship like a dog

by kingsoftheimpossible



Series: take me to the church [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Antagonism, Baptism, Blasphemy, Church Sex, Forced Voyeurism, Mania, Minimal Prep, misogynist language, too much eye rolling, too much swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:10:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Forgive me, Father," Louis says, quiet wavering voice flowing through the sanctuary like an electric charge, "but I just can't stop sinning."</p>
            </blockquote>





	worship like a dog

**Author's Note:**

> it might help if u read the first part first but actually it doesnt matter do whatever the fk u want.  
> please read the tags for warnings.
> 
> the sex is less sexy and more lots of verbal antagonism, which, tbf, is what gets ME going and i am the center of the universe so whatever.
> 
> thanks to the love of my life emily [1demise](http://1demise.tumblr.com) for holding my hand

They spot it at exactly the same moment, white cross-tipped steeple rising high above the flat, dusty horizon, and Louis doesn’t have to tell him to pull over this time. The little dirt patch that serves as a parking lot is full of cars, so Harry stops right in the gravel driveway, blocking the exit. It’s not so much foresight as it is experience.

The service is already well underway when they sneak in so they take the last empty pew in the back, make a good show at bowing their heads, the very picture of blushing penitent church-goers ashamed of showing up late. The pastor’s really going for it, hellfire and brimstone, the whole nine yards, and Louis has to lean over and bite sharp into Harry’s shoulder to stifle his giggles. A few people crane their necks around at the noise, turn their noses up when they see Harry and Louis pressed hip to hip, Louis fiddling absently with the rings on Harry’s long fingers.

Harry inclines his head, smiling beatifically, perfectly aware of the way his eyelashes brush his cheekbones just so, the way this man’s or that woman’s stare gets caught on the dimples in his cheeks and his red lips, his unbuttoned shirt, Louis' marks all over his chest. Everyone’s so righteous right up to the second they aren’t.

 _It’s a game_ , Louis always says, _and they’re all dirty fucking bastards, every single one._

They are, is the thing. Years and years ago- centuries, maybe, ages- Harry’d felt a bit bad about it all- _Lou, do we have to? They haven’t_ -

And Louis would say, _They will_ , and Harry would watch, crestfallen, as they _did_ \- everything, every imaginable bad thing, they all did.

It doesn’t get to him anymore, nothing much does- except Louis wiggling on the pew beside him, restless fingers petting at the cheap faux-velvet cushions, at Harry’s thighs, anything he can reach. He’s manic again, practically blazing in Harry’s peripheral vision, and Harry’s heartbeat is speeding up to match Louis’ quick little huffs of breath.

Harry reaches down and curls his pinky around Louis’, presses his forehead against Louis’ temple and breathes, “ _When?_ ” like a prayer, barely audible beneath the sermon.

Louis shifts his hips in tiny circles, dancing in his seat like a stupid kid. “I want to see a baptism,” he whispers, gesturing vaguely at the big trough of water behind the altar. “Do you think he’d baptise me?” His eyes are shining, too-too bright in the dim light of the church interior.

“He could try,” Harry soothes, pressing his lips lightly to the sweat gathering beneath Louis' fringe. Louis bats him away impatiently, eyes still caught on the still, clear water.

* * *

When the offering plate comes around, Louis takes a fistful of dollars, rustles them loudly as he shoves them in the back pocket of his too-tight jeans. Harry snorts, breaks into actual giggles when Louis gets visibly frustrated because no one reprimands him. No one will even _look_ at them, focused instead on the pastor and wary, maybe, of the way Louis’ shaking out of his skin, burning up.

“I’m bored,” hisses Louis, voice clearly audible over the ringing piano music, the murmuring congregation, the great loud choir. No one looks back this time, but Harry sees a few postures stiffen.

“I like this song,” Harry mumbles back, and Louis stills beside him, leaning heavily into Harry’s side with a huge sigh, as if the fight's gone out of him. As if it ever could.

He whispers, “After?” and Harry promises, “After.”

* * *

The hymn dies down and the pastor steps back up to his pulpit, makes a call for lost souls like he's reading from a script Louis wrote himself. Harry’s hand twitches, and Louis’ body visibly jerks beside him, flying out of his seat like he'd been stung.

“Careful,” Harry murmurs, a reflex. Louis glances back just long enough to toss Harry an exaggerated wink and blow him a kiss, and Harry has to bite the meaty heel of his palm to keep from laughing like a fucking maniac. Louis does that to him sometimes.

The whole congregation is watching now, full of narrowed, suspicious eyes as Louis makes his way up through the center row, head bowed like a saint going to be martyred. Harry's skin is running hot, watching the sweet downward curve of Louis' mouth, the modest sweep of his thick eyelashes as he keeps his eyes cast down to the floor. He reaches the altar steps and kneels, knobs of his spine visible, vulnerable when he bends his head in supplication. For a moment, even Harry believes him when he holds his palms out like a beggar.

He's always been a great actor.

"Forgive me, Father," Louis says, quiet wavering voice flowing through the sanctuary like an electric charge, "but I just can't stop sinning."

Heat shoots up Harry's spine, pools warm in his belly as the pastor flounders, blinks down in bewilderment at Louis on his knees. The congregation shifts, uneasy but intrigued, listening like children with their ears pressed to their parents bedroom doors in the dead of night. Louis, for his part, stays mostly still, but Harry can pick out the nearly imperceptible vibrating energy under his skin.

"I need to be born again," Louis says softly, shoulders trembling like he might cry, and Harry _loves_ it when Louis cries- but Louis isn't anywhere near crying now. He's trying not to laugh, fighting down the upturned corner of his lip. Harry wonders if anyone else can tell, doubts it, feels a deep, fierce pride that it's just him who isn't being pulled in. Finally, Louis raises his head, meets the pastor's shocked gaze with bright, wet eyes."I'd like to be washed in the blood of the lamb."

 It's as good a line as Louis' ever given, and there are gasps, murmured _hallelujahs_ all through the church.

 _Praise His name,_ Harry thinks dryly, watching as the altar servers shake off their stunned disbelief and rush forward to take Louis away, through a back door where he'll presumably be groomed and gotten ready for a baptism.

The preacher is watching where Louis disappeared through the doors, jaw still a little slack. It's clear from the excited humming of the church that they don't get too many converts here- everyone's old holy blood, saved since the womb. The pastor looks back to his flock, pride- _hubris_ , Harry thinks disapprovingly- twisting his face. "And the people said-" he calls, voice loud, authoritative now that he thinks he's got Louis in his pocket.

" _Amen_ ," the congregation chants back, and Harry joins in, just for the hell of it all.

* * *

 Harry figures it out before the rest of the congregation, knows Louis well enough now (has known him well enough forever) to see it coming. The pastor certainly doesn’t notice how there are no trousers peeking out from under the hem of the crisp white baptismal robe Louis’ donned, no shirt collar poking up from the neck. Harry shoves his knuckles in his mouth, bites hard like a fish on a line, waits.

Louis’ eyes find his easily, gazes slotting refrigerator magnet easy, and he smiles sweetly, dips his head like he has an ounce of shame in his body when the pastor offers a hand to steady him as he climbs into the clear tub of water that reaches mid-thigh. The water washes the thin material translucent, and the divine sort of ecstasy that'd been filling the church falters as people start to really _look_ at the young man their pastor's holding by the hand.

The thing about holy water is that it doesn’t really do anything to them- they aren't demons, aren't unholy at all- so there's no sizzling flesh or exorcism. It just makes Louis hard sometimes. Harry'd thought it might be some sort of chemical reaction, the purity of their own blood sparking with the divinity of the water, but he’s pretty much figured out that’s just one of those twisted Louis-things, like burning or wanting people to watch.

The wet robe clings to his tensed thighs, his swelling cock, the gentle curve of his hips. No one looks away, and Harry can hear them, reasoning with themselves, _He's being baptised; it can't be a sin to look_. He feels himself smiling, impossibly wide, snorting at the women fanning themselves and the men adjusting their postures like it'll hide anything.

"Should I confess first?" Louis asks, voice whisper-soft, eyes wide and curious, innocent, and god, Harry'll never get over him, not in a million years. Not when the world ends and all these people are so much ash on the ground; he'll still be wrapped around Louis' little finger.

The pastor hesitates, looks around as if someone else will offer an answer. "It's not necessary," he says, unsure, but he must feel the disappointment radiate from his flock because he hurries on, "but you may. If you feel the Lord is calling you to do so."

Everyone straightens, leans in just the tiniest bit, involuntarily pulled towards the nuclear reactor of Louis, wanting attention, wanting to be looked at and listened to. Wanting to fuck things up.

Louis' lips tilt up the slightest bit, demure, self-deprecating, and he smooths his hands down his thighs, ostensibly straightening the see-though fabric of his baptismal robe. "I'm not sure where to begin, really," he laughs lightly, turning his face away from the congregation watching him like vultures, starved for whatever he's about to offer. "I suppose- well, I suppose you know the story of Sodom and Gomorrah." His eyes jump, for the briefest second, to meet Harry's, and Harry feels himself flush all the way down to his chest, feels the pulse thump heavy between his legs.

They were there, covered in sweat and come and dirt, fucking while the cities burned around them, while the sky fell like shattered glass.

"Sodomy," Louis goes on, frowning a bit. "I've done lots of sodomy." The pastor looks a bit green around the edges, but he nods solemnly for Louis to continue.

"And I guess- I mean, I've done things God couldn't have even _imagined_ when he was having those laws jotted down. Just off the top of my head, there's like- hang on- Haz!" he calls, loud, wrecking the illusion of the gentle lost soul with just the sound of Harry's name from his mouth, and the congregation nearly snap their necks turning to follow Louis' gaze back to Harry, still leaning against the back wall. Harry raises his eyebrows, purses his lips. "Haz, does fisting count as sodomy, do you think? Or should I confess that separate?"

Harry bites the inside of his jaw so he won't laugh at the sea of shell-shocked faces. "Giving or receiving?"

Louis' eyes flash, absolutely delighted. "Both," he says slyly, "at once."

"Reckon that's got to be confessed separate then," Harry says slowly, savoring the unrest growing in the crowd, the conflicting feelings of disgust and intrigue washing over him from every side. "Just to be safe."

"Well, just to be safe, I've given and received fists. Sexually. And nonsexually, as well, I suppose," Louis says, eyebrows drawing together in concern. "Shit, I hadn't even thought about all the violence; I was too caught up in all the fucking-"

"That's _enough-_ " the pastor starts, but Louis holds up his hand to shush him, one of those thoughtless, regal gestures that nearly gives him away as something not-quite-human.

"I wasn't _finished,"_ he says, frowning and so fucking cute Harry can't stand it. "I'm trying to turn over a new leaf, Reverend. Father. Whatever the hell I'm meant to call you." Louis shifts restlessly in the baptismal tub, sloshing water over the sides. "Should've made a fucking list is what I should've done. There's all the arson, for one. Murder, occasionally. _Coveting_ ," he adds fondly, throwing Harry a significant look. "I guess I could just list the ten commandments and say I'd broken those. Could go through the book of Leviticus and say I'd well fucked all that. Hand me a Bible and I could burn it, maybe that's confession enough. And there's this," he adds, rubbing a hand between his thighs, the half-hard rise of his dick, more obvious when his eyelashes flutter, cheeks pink up. He shrugs, rolls his eyes like _what can you do_. "But I'm ready to change," he adds, clapping his hands together and smiling brightly. "Ready for a fresh start from this day on, just need you to say the magic words, Dad."

The preacher's gritting his teeth, but he steps forward anyway, gingerly rests one hand on the back of Louis' neck. like he's worried it might burn him ( _fair concern_ , thinks Harry), the other over his nose and mouth. "As you repent, so I baptise you, my son, in the name of the Father-" he drops Louis back, crashes him into the tub until water flows over the carpets, pulls him up like a child ripped from the womb,"-the Son-" takes him down again, and Harry's heart is hammering, nerves jittering like livewires up and down his spine because someone's touching Louis, holding him under, bringing him back up,"-and of the Holy Spirit." The preacher dunks Louis one last time, stares down at the roiling surface like he's not sure if he should pull him back up. He does, though, hauls Louis up by the neck like a kitten, water sloughing off him in great waves, down the altar steps. Louis looks limp, docile under the pastor's hand, and Harry can't breathe, hasn't let out a breath since Louis first went under.

"Go now," the man says quietly, gasping for air like baptizing Louis was a marathon, a fistfight, "and proclaim that Christ is Lord."

He drops his hand to his side, and Louis crumples to his knees in what's left of the holy water in the tub. He's shaking again, but Harry can't read him, can't see past the wet hair plastered to his face and the great gasping breaths he's taking. The tense silence stretches, on and on, like the only person even breathing in the whole room is Louis, curled tight against his own knees like he's been wounded. For a moment, Harry panics, wonders if they've finally pushed it too far, if they've barreled so far off track the blessed water might be toxic, burning Louis to nothing in front of his eyes.

Then his brain catches up, grasps the significance of Louis' frantically shaking shoulders, and Harry can't help but bark a loud, incredulous laugh. Everyone jumps, turns to look at him, seeking some sort of explanation for what they can only guess is some sort of exorcism happening in their own well-loved church. Harry, though, only has enough attention for Louis, the curved bow of his spine that's so familiar, and if he's right-

" _F-uck_ ," Louis groans, exactly on time, head tipping back at an impossible angle to reveal his fist frantically tugging at his dick through the soaked robe, hips pushing up jackrabbit quick into his own palm. There's a gasp that goes from one side of the church to the other, heads turning away, hands flying up to cover eyes, and Harry sees Louis' grip tighten at the noise, spurred on. He rolls his eyes, can't help it. Louis' such a showboat sometimes. His fond irritation falls away the next moment when Louis' eyes slide open, just enough to find Harry, call out for him through the desperately uncomfortable crowd.

The preacher's still at Louis' shoulder, face red, caught between rage and shame and shock and he's so utterly lost that Harry nearly feels bad for him. Can't, though, when Louis whines, "Harry, _please_ ," pulls him up to the altar like gravity, meteors crashing together.

The aisle is empty still, everyone too dumbstruck to _leave,_ too fixed on trying to ignore the filthy-loud slide of Louis palming himself like the shameless brat he is. Harry takes the altar steps in one jump, pulls Louis up and out of the cold water easy as hauling a small dog out of a pen. The water runs off him like he repels it, soaks through Harry's shirt and jeans until they're both shivering.

Harry leans in, presses his lips tight to Louis' ear, breathes in the rosewater smell of him. "Scared me for a minute there, you fucking bastard," he mumbles, and the water gets in his mouth, oddly sweet, nostalgic like home. Everything changes, but holy water always tastes the same, tastes like the first time he took Louis in his mouth back in the Garden at the dawn of the world.

"J-j-just cause you're a fucking p-pussy," Louis hisses back, laughing despite his blue, trembling lips and the way his hips are rutting against Harry's thigh, pushy and forceful as always.

Harry rolls his eyes again, can't stop rolling his eyes at Louis, ever. "You know I hate that word," he says, wrapping his arms tighter around Louis and trying to bleed some warmth back into him.

Louis giggles against his chest, gasps, "Can't hate what you _are,_ " before he starts pressing against Harry with a bit more purpose.

It seems the pastor's finally gotten his head back on straight because he looks _murderous_ over Louis' shoulder, sputtering and swelling like a bullfrog, like he might just pop from the force of his rage. He says, "Get _out,"_ with all the authority of someone who's used to being obeyed without having to earn it.

"You get out," Harry says, laughing like an idiot when Louis huffs in frustration and shoves his fingers in Harry's mouth to shut him up a second later, always comes faster that way- _distracting, hush_. He's being ridiculous, one leg wrapped around Harry's waist trying to get the right sort of friction, but it clearly isn't working if the scowl on his face is anything to go by.

"This is a _church_ ," the pastor says, screams, nearly, and Louis freezes, eyes going glazed-dark and hips stuttering to a halt. Harry snorts in disbelief, reaches down between them to feel at the wet, Louis softening where they're pressed together- "You _didn't_ ," he tries to say, but Louis' fingers are still curled against his tongue in a decently effective imitation of a gag.

Louis shakes himself, turns to the pastor and the congregation with a winning, if slightly unsettling, smile. "Well spotted," he says, voice sharp and mean. "Next you'll be telling me you're a _shepherd_ and these are your _flock_." He meets the preacher's gaze with a withering indifference. "You should be falling to your knees before _me_ , if we're all being honest. I'm the closest thing to a god you're ever going to encounter." That hits a nerve with the pastor and the audience, Harry can feel it- the intake of breath, the existential doubt flooding the room, curling around Louis' feet like an offering. "I'm a loving god, you know. Ask Harry. He can tell you all about my _love._ " He reaches into Harry's open shirt, lovingly fingers the healing scars of their initials.

The shiver that runs down Harry’s spine has nothing to do with the Holy Spirit and everything to do with Louis- Louis talking so good and breaking so good and lying so, so good. Louis with his teeth out and his eyes soft, and it’s all an act, and Harry’s in on it, and no one else is, and it makes Harry’s blood run hot. The pastor is catching on, bit by bit, hands fiddling nervously on the pulpit while Louis rolls his shoulders, flits down the steps to stalk up and down the aisle, robes dripping on the well-kept carpet and hiding absolutely nothing, lazy swagger and something fucked up about the way he’s swinging his hips. Eons and counting, and Harry’s never stopped watching him once.

 The congregation watches him, too, their earlier predatory curiosity turned skittish, nervous whenever his gaze sweeps over them, like his look alone might be enough to damn them, like he might be searching for one of them in particular, some sort of avenging angel bullshit. He isn't, has everything he wants already up on the altar, standing with pigeon-toed feet and a stupid fucking bandana tied in his hair. It's fun, though, to make these people wait, make them wonder what he is, what he could give them. Some of them are starting to wonder, barely let themselves think it, if he might be _the Beast_ , and they stare that much harder at his thinly-veiled body, searching for triple sixes like they think that superstition is real.

Louis’ eyes light up, and he turns to point a dainty finger at the pastor, flinging baptismal water over the first few rows of onlookers in the process. They all flinch, half-expecting it to smoke through their skin. “You!” he shouts, and the pastor actually winces, clutching at the large pulpit bible like he expects it to save him somehow. “I need you to get me something.”

Harry watches the way the pastor’s face heats up, angry at being ordered around in his own church, livid that Louis, who-or-whatever he is, is desecrating his carefully maintained sacred space. It’s funny, sort of, and a bit sad.

“Oil,” Louis says, ignoring the clear reservations on the preacher's part. “Bring me the oil you use for anointing. And don’t be stingy either, I know you’ve got loads of that shit hidden around here somewhere; I can smell it.” His eyes cut to Harry’s then, smallest grin tucked like a secret in the corner of his lips. Harry’s belly flips, coils tight and warm. "And don't run off," Louis adds, voice deceptively calm, bored almost, "or we'll torch this shithole to the ground."

They watch the pastor scramble away, back through the door where Louis'd been taken before his baptism. They have a silent conversation next, Harry flicking his gaze out over the terrified congregation, Louis frowning and narrowing his eyes in challenge, Harry humming slightly and jerking his head toward where the preacher had disappeared. Louis pouts, stamps his foot a little because he's a child. Harry crosses his arms over his chest, waits.

"Fine," Louis snaps, throwing his hands up, dramatic and ridiculous and the very center of the universe. "Since we always have to do everything _your_ fucking way. God fucking forbid Harry _fucking_ Styles doesn't get his goddamn way just _one_ fucking time," he rants, tugging fruitlessly at the collar of the robe. He finally screeches, "Get this the fuck _off_ me," and holds his arms out toward Harry, looking for all the world like the most put-upon toddler in existence.

"They'll still be right outside, Lou," Harry murmurs soothingly, bending down to grab the dripping hem of Louis' robe, gently pull it up his body, over his damp hair, dropping it to the floor with an unpleasant squelch. "They can listen. Hear every sound we make. You'd like that, yeah?" he asks quietly, gathering Louis back into his arms and swaying him like he's trying to put him to sleep.

"You always ruin my fun," Louis mumbles, petulant but not fighting it. "Why can't we keep them here?"

"Just want you," Harry says easily, smiling into the fluffy drying hair at the nape of Louis' neck. "Tired of everyone looking at you. Tired of you looking at everyone but me."

Louis snorts, "Jealous bastard," but ruins the effect by preening a little under Harry's attention.

They're interrupted by the door banging open, the pastor returning with a heavy vase of shimmering oil which he sets at their feet. Louis dips his toe in it experimentally, makes a pleased little noise when it's warm.

"You can all leave," Harry calls, smiling easily out over the crowd. "Sort of. You can all go stand in the foyer. We blocked the parking lot exit earlier so I'm afraid you can't _leave_ leave, but it's a start, you know." There's a moment of silence, a pause like they're waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to spit fire or mention their approaching doom. He's not really in the mood today, though, so he shoos them with one hand, clucking at them as if they're just so many wayward hens. "Off with you, we've got business with your pastor." 

* * *

"Take a seat," Harry says, gesturing grandly to the pews like a homeowner welcoming a guest. "Ah-ah," he chides, when the preacher moves to sit near the back where Harry and Louis'd been earlier. "Closer, please, be a good sport about it."

"What do you want from me?" the preacher asks, quiet, rage dulled by his fear and grudging interest as he settles in the first row of pews. His foot is tapping lighting-quick, a nervous habit, probably, and he keeps his eyes downcast, but that's alright, Harry'll be doing plenty of looking for the both of them."We don't have much money-" _a lie_ "and these are good people-" _arguable at best._ Lucky for him they don't care much for money or people, good or not. "If you're expecting some sort of- of _sexual_ deed-" His attempt at sounding disgusted is barely passable and Harry and Louis snort in unison, unimpressed.

"You should be so fucking lucky," Louis grumbles, unbuttoning Harry's shirt and pulling it off his shoulders, using it to dry himself like the little bastard he is.

"Just say some Hail Mary's for us. Like a soundtrack," Harry offers absently, more interested in watching the altar lights shine on Louis' tan skin. "This one just likes an audience." He swats Louis on the ass for good measure, earning an undignified squawk and getting his shirt thrown in the dregs of the baptism pool for his trouble.

"We aren't Catholic," the preacher says, jaw tight. "I don't know the Hail Mary."

"They aren't Catholic," repeats Louis, scowling at Harry like it's _his_ fault they stumbled upon goddamned Protestants, like the baptism shouldn't have given it away earlier. "What the fuck use is he if he isn't Catholic? Not even a little Catholic?" he asks, turning quickly back to the priest, eyebrows raised. "Not even like, a fourth? On your mother's side?"

"'s not how it works," Harry laughs, grabbing Louis around the waist and spinning him a bit, getting caught up in his big hands on Louis' soft-flared hips, how warm he's gotten with the wet robes gone.

"Well, fuck," Louis snaps, tossing his head, twitching his fingertips, ramping up towards too-much again. "God, just get on your fucking knees, Harry, this is a waste of my time. Come on, kneel, we haven't got all fucking day." He spends a few moments uselessly tugging at Harry's shoulders, trying to drop him to the floor, but Harry returns the gesture until Louis' knees buckle.

" _You_ fucking kneel, my back hurts, I told you earlier in the car-"

Louis resists, dancing out of Harry's grip and sticking out his tongue. "That's what you get for trying to give roadhead with your useless fucked-up spine, isn't it? Not my fucking fault-"

"You _pushed my head down on your dick_ -" Harry starts, exasperated, endeared, but Louis just scoffs and waves him off.

"Fucking details, no one _cares,_ Harry." He spins and sinks to his knees, graceful and awful. "If I get carpet burn, I'm going to fuck your sister," he adds as an afterthought, vicious even on his hands and knees.

Harry just laughs, says, “Yeah, you fucking wish,” before shoving Louis down the rest of the way with a foot between his shoulder blades.

Louis hisses, " _Neanderthal,_ " but he'll have to work a lot harder than that to convince Harry he doesn't love it.

Someone clears their throat and the two of them look up, somewhat surprised to see the preacher still sitting uncomfortably in his seat, eyes fixed to the ground.

Louis stretches luxuriously, rolls his shoulders like a sunning cat and settles with his ass a bit higher in the air, elbows in the floor and chin in his hands as he observes the pastor with interest. "Give us the Lord's Prayer, then, surely you've got- _oh_ \- surely you've got that memorized," he taunts, hips twitching slightly when Harry slaps a palm-full of anointing oil on his asscheek, trying to get his attention back.

The preacher doesn't argue, bows his head, clasps his hands, and begins. He has a good voice, thinks Harry vaguely, watching his own fingers slide across Louis' shining skin, spreading the oil down and over his hole, liking the way it makes Louis huff and shiver.

"Fingers?" Harry mumbles, prodding around clumsily, clinically, the way Louis hates.

"Oh no, by all fucking means, just barge right in," Louis says grandly, swinging his hips back and forth and sweeping out one arm in a great welcoming gesture. "You just love being a pain in my fucking ass, don't you?"

Harry can't help but _giggle_ , absolutely lightheaded with how much he loves Louis like this, harsh and happy and trying so hard to cover it up. He mumbles, "You know I do," unzipping his jeans as slow and loud as possible just to rile Louis up that bit more.

 " _Our Father who art in Heaven-"_

Beneath Harry's hands, Louis _trembles_ , leaf in storm shakes, body-racking pneumonia shakes, and Harry's body responds immediately, shivers and hunches down until they're back to chest, lips to ear.

"Hallowed be thy name," Harry murmurs, matching the priest, wet-hot lips dragging Louis' earlobe where he's the most ticklish. "Thy kingdom come-"

Louis' fingers scrabble at the carpet and he tosses his head side to side like he's possessed, trying to get away from Harry's syrup-thick-slow voice grinding too-quiet in his ear. "God, fucking talk dirty to me, why don't you?" he pants, dropping lower until his whole chest is flush with the floor and only his haunches remain aloft, anything to get Harry off him.

 _I'm trying, aren't I?_ Harry wants to say, wants to laugh at him and push him around, pin him to the floor and roll him, just because he can. Say,  _see how I'm so much bigger, see how I can hold you however I want, keep you forever if I want._ He doesn't though, just this once, instead slaps his dick against the backs of Louis' thighs, high up where he's sensitive. It has the desired effect, makes Louis spread his legs a bit, push back, demanding even when he isn't running his mouth for once.

It takes two repetitions of the Lord's prayer to work himself inside, could've done it in one but he likes the tense, impatient quivering of Louis' shoulders, the way he's scrubbing his face against the floor trying to keep quiet like the good little martyr he is.

"Going to get a rash," Harry warns, breathless with Louis squeezing like a vice around him, doing it on purpose because he's been trying to kill Harry since day fucking one of the universe coming into existence.

"Can't _believe_ you didn't do any fucking prep," Louis gasps, like it was Harry's idea to skip it, like anything is ever Harry's idea. "I'm going to bleed out on this fucking altar-"

"Ugh, you're going to make me soft," Harry whines, squinting his face up to get rid of the visual.

"If you go soft, I'll just fuck the pastor," Louis says breezily, grinning sharp and mean over his shoulder. It's all a fucking act though--kindergarteners' charades--because there's so much affection in his eyes that Harry thinks he'd probably puke if he saw himself in a mirror at this moment.

* * *

Louis’ always worse with an audience, plays it up like a porn star until Harry can’t decide whether to laugh or just fuck him harder. The pastor isn’t even _watching_ but Louis’ still arching his back, mewling and whipping his head like he’s really getting it good. He isn’t, though, at least not from Harry, since Harry’s too busy rolling his eyes and scoffing to actually fuck with any sort of gusto. Louis starts to notice, interrupts his own little show mid-moan to glare back at Harry.

"Is there a fucking problem, Styles? You need a pill or something?"

Harry shrugs, nudges his hipbones against the swell of Louis’ ass just hard enough to make it jiggle the way he absolutely loves and Louis fucking despises. “Just doesn’t feel _sincere_ , you know. If you wanted to fuck the pastor you could’ve just said.”

The preacher visibly recoils in the corner of Harry’s vision, stumbles over a verse of the prayer, but Harry just watches the war of emotions on Louis’ face- a bit of disgust, the seemingly ever-present anger, intrigue, because he’s a fucking lunatic. “What are you even bitching about now, your dick’s in my ass, isn’t it? What else do you fucking want?”

" _Commitment_ ," Harry says, eyes glittering in amusement, watching the way Louis’ nose scrunches up in distaste. "Want you to make me feel like I’m the only girl in the world, Lou."

"You bend over and get fucked, then-"

"That’s sexist. You’re being a bastard, Louis, just pay attention to _me_ , yeah? You know I can’t come if you aren’t paying attention." It’s so true that it's a bit scary, and if they hadn't been made for each other, built as two parts of a whole dangerous, destructive machine, Harry would worry about it, maybe.

"Well _I_ can’t come if you’re fucking whining,” Louis growls, but his cheeks are red, flushed like he gets when he’s pleased with something Harry’s said. “Here,” he mutters, reaching back between his own thighs to cup Harry’s balls where they’re resting against his ass. “Is this enough attention?  Can you get on with it now?”

"Bossy."

"You love it."

Harry shoves Louis forward with two hands on his hips until he's nearly empty, until his face is comically stretched and burn-red against the carpet. Harry clarifies, "Love _you,_ " just to see Louis stick his tongue out like he's retching.

"As long as your dick isn't as soft as your gross heart." He pushes back against Harry's hands, eyes rolling in his skull and teeth gritting at the rip-apart drag of it, the anointing oil sparking like fire inside him until he's barely breathing, whining between his teeth on every exhale and slamming his fist against the altar. "I hate your ugly horse cock so fucking much, have I ever fucking told you-"

Loving Louis is an exercise in patience, and when that runs out it becomes an exercise in flexibility- Harry folds himself over Louis' back again, biting at his neck and his jaw and shoulders, uses the hand not holding Louis' hips up to press his face hard to the floor, shutting him up. It took a long time to learn that- how Louis pushes sometimes because he wants to find a wall, wants to talk himself into a corner so he'll have limits, just for a moment. Harry knows the feeling, how for them looking out at the future is like trying to see the end of a desert from the center, nothing behind and nothing ahead and the _nothing_ of everything pressing in on every side.

Harry hides his face in the steep valley between Louis' distended shoulder blades, breathes open-mouthed against his bowstring spine- "Got you, yeah?"

And Louis sinks, releases tension like his strings have been cut, heaves a weary sigh and murmurs, "Yeah," and then a soft, mumbley chorus of _yeah, yeah, yeah_ when Harry moves his hips infinitesimally. He's so easy when he gives up, goes from a tornado tearing itself apart to something almost like a normal boy in love, pleased hums and soft sighs and one hand seeking out Harry's, tangling their fingers together gordian-knot tight, gordian-knot forever. 

 _"And lead us not into temptation-_ "

Harry's heart seizes up a bit when Louis giggles softly, eyelids fluttering open so he can grin up at Harry, pull a grotesque, ridiculous sort of face that really shouldn't make Harry that much closer to coming, but spend a billion-trillion years with someone and weird things start doing it for you, apparently.

"We're in a _church_ ," Louis whispers, euphoric like it's a secret, fingers of his free hand petting affectionately at the carpet beneath his cheek. "'s almost like being home, isn't it?"

 _Home_ \- the word hits Harry deep and strange, because he's a bit younger than Louis, doesn't remember _home_ the same way. When Louis says _home_ , all Harry sees inside his head is- _Louis_ , really, Louis curled up in the passenger seat of the shit car they stole a decade ago, Louis soaked in butane or holy water or mud, Louis laughing and sleeping and next to Harry, always. Louis still remembers the world before the Garden, maybe remembers the world before _Harry_ , and that's- it's weird, unholy somehow, gives Harry the most dizzying vertigo until he's gasping, panicking a bit, rolling his hips against Louis' ass quick and hard, a staccato  _remember me, remember me, remember me_.

But they were made for each other, is the thing, and Louis sighs, comes easily like it's nothing, mumbles, _"'s better with you, though,"_ and Harry wants to do- everything, anything, wants to burst into flames and take this whole church with him, torch the whole fucking world just so Louis can watch, because he'd get off on it probably.

Harry comes midway through what would be the final repetition of the Lord's Prayer, collapses onto Louis' back so they're both sprawled on the floor, can't help but laugh when Louis whispers sleepily, _what, you couldn't even 'hold out til the end?_ like he hadn't come first. He's got no shame, struggles onto his back until they're chest to chest, kisses Harry's cheeks and nose and mouth, his forehead, like a blessing.

He doesn't say anything sharp or biting, which for Louis is as good as saying _I love you_ a thousand times. Harry buries his face in the sweaty crook of Louis' neck, wants to say _I'm so happy it's you, so happy it's always been you, don't know how I could've loved anyone else like this_. He doesn't though, doesn't want to ruin the moment by making Louis prickly and embarrassed. Besides, they have all the time in the world.

* * *

 

While Louis' gone to grab his clothes out the back room, Harry pulls his sopping shirt back on, does up his jeans, and settles next to the preacher who's sitting with his eyes firmly shut.

"That was lovely," Harry says happily, giggly and warm still. "Thanks for helping out."

The preacher flinches and shifts away, but Harry's sitting too close for him to get much of anywhere. "Please just don't come back. Don't ever come back."

"Rude," Louis scoffs, entering the room with his jeans unbuttoned and his t-shirt on backwards.

"Please," asks the preacher again, and Louis rolls his eyes like it's a stupid request

"We're busy fucking people," he says, pulling Harry to his feet and shoving him along towards the foyer doors where the congregation is gathered outside. "Besides, I've already been saved, haven't I? Baptised like the big man ordered, or whatever." Harry pushes the big doors open and the crowd parts immediately, peering behind Louis and Harry, looking for their preacher, half-expecting him harmed in some visible way.

Harry smiles at them, and Louis snarls a bit because he always gets sleepy and cranky after sex. They exit while the people flow back into the sanctuary, rushing to check on their pastor, hear what happened behind the closed doors.

Louis slurs, "They're a bunch of fucking perverts," as he climbs into the passenger seat, curling up right away with his knees to his chest, angled towards Harry.

Harry doesn't remind him that he'd been the one who wanted them to watch in the first place, just pats soothingly at Louis' knee and pulls out of the lot, back onto the forever-stretch of highway with Louis snoring softly beside him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday to me.  
> [tumblr](http://seancodydirection.tumblr.com)


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